


Enhanced Interrogation Techniques

by Merkwerkee



Category: Masters of the Metaverse
Genre: Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Possession, planet metaverse: invasion, s6 e3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22856860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merkwerkee/pseuds/Merkwerkee
Summary: To get more information about the invaders from another Metaverse, Bruno and Patric talk to the captured avatar Captain Donaldson





	Enhanced Interrogation Techniques

Consciousness came slowly.

The first thing that registered was pain; a stitching hitch in his side spelled broken ribs, a coppery taste in his mouth heralded a split lip, and a stabbing pain in his gut that meant nothing good. Donaldson hadn’t been _this_ injured when an IED had taken out his vehicle in Iraq. What the hell had happened on US soil that’d busted him up so badly? His head felt…muddled. Did he have a concussion too? He couldn’t remember - his head didn’t hurt, exactly, but he couldn’t remember.

“Hey Captain.”

That, that was him, wasn’t it? Captain Donaldson, Rangers.

“Wha- what? Huh? What’s going on?”

“Are you with me, Captain?”

Donaldson moved his hands down to lever himself up to face whoever the hell was talking to him and encountered something warm and covered in pockets. He looked down, and tried to wiggle his toes.

 _Nothing_.

“I, I can’t feel my legs. _I can’t feel my legs!_ ”

The panic was suffocating. He couldn’t feel his legs. Not his toes, not his hands clamped tightly on his thighs, not even a phantom sensation. _Nothing_. This was the end of everything - his career, his freedom of movement, his way of life. How the hell was he supposed to do his job and take care of his family with no legs?

“You’re not in good shape, Captain. I’m sorry.”

This guy was sorry? Donaldson couldn’t feel his goddamn legs and this guy was _sorry_?

“What’s- what’s happening? How did I get here? Who’re you people?”

His voice shook with a mix of anger and the awful fear that churned in his gut. _He couldn’t feel his legs._

“Name’s Sergeant Bruno Hamilton, USMC.”

Of all the answers the guy could’ve given him, that one threw Donaldson for a loop. A marine? And old for a sergeant; near mandatory retirement, if he had to guess.

“Wh-what?”

“Can you… _feel_ anyone in your thoughts?”

Donaldson blinked. Feeling people in his thoughts? What kind of new-age hippie bullshit was this guy selling? What kind of new-age hippie bullshit could you get from a _Marine sergeant_ , for God’s sake. This guy wasn’t just close to mandatory retirement, he was close to a psych discharge.

He _had_ to be.

“What kind of question is that??”

“What actions have you taken in the last few days, Captain? Do you remember?”

Donaldson blinked, then wrinkled his forehead. His head didn’t hurt too badly, and his mouth didn’t taste like a dead rat so he probably hadn’t been out drinking in the last 24 hours.

So why did the memories feel so far out of reach?

“I- I don’t remember. I was at Fort Bragg, and then….I, I feel like I’ve been dreaming; I, I stole a helicopter? No, I couldn’t have stolen a helicopter. I would never steal a helicopter.”

“So it works just like your guys’ do.”

Donaldson’s head swiveled around to the other man in the room, who up until this point had seemed content to let Hamilton - if that really was his name - do all the talking. Now that was a face he recognized, from all the nationwide terror alerts that had gone out recently. Patric Leibowitz-O’Kelley, wanted in conjunction with several acts of terrorism on American soil. That was…concerning.

The self-professed Marine didn’t seem fazed, either by his compatriot in general or by the distinctly accented interruption.

“Different avatars react differently.”

_What was an avatar?_

“Talk to tha pilot.”

Was that him? Donaldson wasn’t certified to fly, but he knew his way around a cockpit thanks to a buddy of his back at the Fort. Hamilton was certainly turning back around to look him.

“Captain, you’ve been….possessed.”

Well, _that_ was unexpected.

“What kind of bullshit are you talking about? _Possessed_.”

Donaldson scoffed. Possession only happened in movies and TV shows; God knows how many lame-brained privates he’d spooked over the years by busting up their “secret” Ouija board sessions on Halloween. It did his heart good to see them fall over themselves getting to attention, eyes darting wildly like they actually expected Abe Lincoln’s ghost to appear and pop them around the head or something.

“In this century’s people’s terms, they say madness.”

Hamilton ignored the muttered comment from his companion and crouched, bringing him closer to eye level with Donaldson. Donaldson wished acutely in that moment he could sit up, but his _legs_ ….

“Well. I wish there was an easier way to tell you this, captain, but you can feel what kind of shape you’re in. The helicopter theft was real.”

_No._

“It’s- it’s not possible.”

It _couldn’t_ be possible. He’d remember doing something like that - you just couldn’t steal a helicopter and not remember doing it.

Except he did, didn’t he? A vague feeling of his hands on the controls, the pressure of the headset on his ears, the feeling of the wind in the cockpit as he flew the chopper to the rendezvous. But it was all so distant, like a photograph left in the sunlight for too long. The memories faded as he tried to catch them, running through his mental fingers like sand, going……somewhere.

“You’ve been hunting the men outside for no good reason and for some time now. And…..this is hard to explain. Basically, we’re being invaded by aliens, and they do it by possessing…possessing people.”

That was possibly the most ludicrous explanation Donaldson had ever heard.

“This is completely insane. _You_ are completely insane.”

Definitely out on a psych discharge. Why wasn’t Hamilton confined? He was clearly a danger to society.

“Yeah. You have a better explanation? Because I’d love to hear it.”

The worst part was, Donaldson _didn’t._ But Hamilton had to be lying. _Had to be_.

“This is….This is not right. This is not _right_.”

“This guy’s still in your head right now. He can hear what I’m saying. He’s from another world. And he’s got some kind of invasion going on.”

Donaldson could feel his gorge rising. There was something, something in his mind - a shadow?

“Did you drug me?”

Hamilton shook his head.

“Didn’t need to. I wish we had some stronger painkillers for you right now, though.”

“That’s kind of the opposite of what we need to get what we need outta this fella.”

Leibowitz-O’Kelley’s statement was flat and unfriendly. Donaldson’s eyes followed Hamilton’s gaze as the older man looked over, and the irishman’s stare was as flat and unfriendly as his voice had been. The man was clearly losing patience.

“Well, unless we can figure out how to get his pilot to talk to us…He doesn’t know anything.”

Donaldson’s eyes snapped back to Hamilton for a moment before being drawn back to Leibowitz-O’Kelley. Of the two, the terrorist was clearly more unhinged.

“Right! Yeah, no, I’ve got just the thing.”

So saying, the terrorist produced a large knife and Donaldson fought to keep his face straight. It was…easier, than he’d thought it would be. The fear was further away than he’d thought it was. Like it had somehow moved away when he wasn’t looking.

But that wasn’t a _thing_ , was it?

“Doesn’t work like that, Patric.”

Hamilton’s statement was dry with just a hint of weariness, and Leibowitz-O’Kelley responded with a nasty grin.

“Sure it does.”

The man gestured with the - very big - knife as he spoke. Donaldson felt his heart try to race, but again the feeling was oddly muffled. He _should_ feel more fear, but the feeling was just out of reach.

“Wh-what are you doing with that?”

Leibowitz-O’Kelley flourished the knife, the light reflecting malevolently off the blade.

“Well, the pilot can feel everything that you feel, and uh, you’re as good as dead. But I can keep _him_ alive another half-hour and make him feel the worst pain of his life. Might not talk, but from what I understand he can’t jack out until _you’re_ dead. Right?”

That question was addressed to Hamilton, who nodded slowly, and Donaldson felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

“That’s my understanding.”

Hamilton seemed reluctant, but that didn’t slow the terrorist down one bit as he took a few deliberate steps in Donaldson’s direction.

“No. No no no _no no_ …”

Even as he spoke, Donaldson could feel his fear somehow draining away towards the darkness in the back of his mind. He tried desperately to hold on to it, inexplicably more afraid of what might happen when he failed, but fail he did and the shadow in the back of his mind rose up and swallowed him whole.

“So. Talk to me, pilot. What do we want to know - where you from? And if you say Kansas…”

Donaldson’s head lolled as for a brief moment two people were in perfect balance inside his head, and no-one was holding the reins. In that instant Donaldson knew everything; who the man in his head was, what his mission was, how he was doing this.

 _Everything_.

And then the moment was broken and Donaldson was pushed to the back of his head as the other took control. He watched in horror as the other - what’d Leibowitz-O’Kelley call him? A pilot? - looked out over the two men in the room with him and curled his lips in a small sneer. The expression felt alien to Donaldson’s face, and he felt like his stomach should be trying to crawl up his throat. He _should_ be horrified, the buzzing static in his head was _definitely_ panic but the Other Guy didn’t let a single thread of it show. In fact, the only real feeling in their shared skull was…a faint amusement?

Donaldson _screamed_ , thrashing out with everything that he was in a single uncoordinated attack. The Other Guy didn’t even bat an eye, rolling Donaldson into an even deeper corner of his own psyche with some sort of mental aikido that felt disturbingly practiced. _The first step to controlling an avatar is emotional and physiological control_ , a memory that definitely wasn’t Donaldson’s whispered. O _nce you have that, there is very little the host can do to resist you_. He slumped, despair crashing over him like a tide. He could feel his mouth moving, hear vaguely the words being said to his ears, but it didn’t matter, none of of it _mattered_. Not now. 

_I’ll never see my wife and kids again_ , he thought with a sudden, awful clarity.

Their faces flashed in front of his eyes. Bonnie, with her vivacious smile and bouncy brown curls holding his youngest son Loyd as Alix, Nikki, and Major clamored to see their new baby brother. God, he loved them. Regret seized him as he thought of everything he’d miss - he’d never teach Loyd how to throw a baseball, never put the fear of God into any boys or girls Alix and Nikki brought home, never see Major get that photography degree he was always chattering about. And Bonnie - God, she’d have four kids to deal with, all alone. If he couldn’t be with her, he could only pray she found someone good to help her out.

Donaldson’s steadfast ignorance of the outside world was brought to an end by a sudden, sharp sting in his arm, and he looked out of eyes that were slowly dimming into the regretful face of Patric Leibowitz-O’Kelley. He tried valiantly one last time to take control, to _beg_ the other men in the room to look after his family. But his tongue refused to move, the Other Guy’s spite ringing clear in their shared head as even last words were denied to him, and

everything

went

dark.


End file.
